


The First

by WillowMadison



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Cunnilingus, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, First Meetings, First Time, Girls Kissing, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Multi, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Abuse, Tattoos, Threesome, Threesome - F/F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:35:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24279700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WillowMadison/pseuds/WillowMadison
Summary: My first taste of pussy was always going to be memorable, I suppose. How could it not be? That unique blend of spicy, tangy, salty...there’s nothing quite like it. Cock is yummy, but more...refined? No...moredelicatein comparison.Pussy is in your face flavor (sorry...puns are a weakness of mine).And hers? The pussy belonging to that first girl I ever tasted? Ah...I’m convinced hers was an especially intoxicating elixir. But I’ve gotten ahead of myself…
Relationships: Original Character(s)/Original Character(s), Original Female Character & Original Male Character, Original Female Character/Original Female Character, Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	1. First Meeting

The three of us -- my husband, this (intimate) stranger, and me -- stood awkwardly apart in the glass elevator as it made its way up to our floor. My shoes held such mesmerizing interest for me. I couldn’t drag my eyes away from them other than to steal glances at hers (chunky heeled Mary Janes, matte black against her chocolate creaminess). I didn’t dare allow my gaze to drift further up. 

We’d met, in person, only an hour earlier. I’d allowed myself full perusal of her then, although I’d made an effort to be circumspect about it. Over drinks in a quiet corner of a local bar, my imagination had run away from me as I cataloged all her features. 

Loose afro curls, a not-quite darkest shade of night, brushed her bare collarbone. With each tilt or shake of her head, a repetitive gesture brought on by nerves perhaps, the scent of her shampoo lit the air with the light sweetness of cut strawberries. 

It was a toss-up for which of her facial features demanded most attention. She wore a touch of makeup to enhance her beauty, but none noticeable enough to detract. That was my first real impression of her -- that she’d not gone to any lengths to impress put me at ease. Her wide-set eyes, pooled to nearly an ebony depth, sparkled in the low lighting. Their frame of lashes, thick yet short, fanned across her high cheekbones with every shy glance down. The rich darkness of her full lips lightened to a rosy pink in their centers. Her paler pink tongue shot out often to moisten them. When she laughed, mouth wide open, her tongue was flat and thick. The inside of an M&M exactly matched her skin tone.

Being tall, taller than me by more than a half a foot, her entire torso was visible above the glossy tabletop between us. Her posture jockeyed between shoulders slouched in self-consciousness and shoulders back in self-confidence. It was endearing...a siren call to a sadistic side I wasn’t sure I had. Her breasts, tightly confined in a simple light gray t-shirt, sagged and perked, bouncing with the slightest of movements. Only once did her nipples peak and oh how I wish I could remember the cause. 

(Her tits deserve a full paragraph of their own, and I think they shall have many before this tale is told in full.)

The scoop neck of her shirt showcased an expanse of smooth skin and the softly swelling tops of her breasts. Their shape was that of rolling hills -- wide and full, heavy mounds, slightly flattened. They beckoned to be used as pillows, to be caressed, to be suckled. 

Just visible on her left breast, a bright blue tip of a wing drew my eye. The thought of her having a tattoo there scrambled my brain. I wanted her to push the edge of her shirt down to give me a better look at the artistry. I wanted to hear of the hurt she’d endured to make herself a canvas. That tattoo...it opened a door into her, as if she invited attention despite her shy smiles.

Unlike me, she wasn’t a petite girl. A seemingly unflattering term, yet accurate nonetheless, to describe her overall physique would be big boned. Her flesh encased a strength in a soft outer shell, skin tight and smooth, not a blemish in sight. A dimple at her wrists, a fold in her neck, a roundness to her cheek...she was lush and ripe. Nothing jiggled or wiggled. Rather, she floated as if surrounded by currents she rode, her substantial body gravity-less. 

The table hiding her lower half was a shame. When she’d entered the bar, her body had been on display. That saying about legs going on for miles? I think she had something to do with its invention. She filled out her faded skinny jeans as only a non-skinny girl can -- all the right plumpness and curves begged to be squeezed and pinched. Her voluptuous thighs rubbed together, scissoring the visible Y at their apex, teasingly stretching the worn denim fabric. Her waist nipped in and her bottom bubbled out. She was made for fucking.

I wondered what she thought of me, as opposite to her as two women could possibly be. Her glimpses in my direction made no secret that she was checking me out too. Only hints of warm smiles gave any indication of her likewise appreciation for our contrasts. 

In that first hour, we talked of things, I know we must have. Husband I’m sure held more than his share of the conversation. But I don’t recall any of that, lost in my own thoughts. Lost to the subtext of _will we or won’t we_. 

(Spoiler: we did.)

I’ll admit now what I couldn’t back then. I wasn’t a willing participant in this...whatever it was to be. Rubbed raw into submission, I’d acquiesced to my husband’s badgering for this meeting in the flesh. The penalty for denying him had been too bruising for me to continue. 

Which meant I’d arrived at that bar with little interest in the outcome to the evening. Until she’d walked in. Until all that I’ve described pulled at my curiosity. Until I wondered at her...

Coming alone, she was brave. Or naïve? Meeting strangers for sex, she was adventurous. Or libertine? Being eager, she was inexperienced. Or wanton? To get at the answers, I wanted to peel away all her layers.

The decision to move things along isn’t one I recollect. Rather, I remember following...out to the street, into an elevator, down a hall, through a door. The twin globes of her voluptuous ass swayed before me, come-hither-ing me forward. I was the stranger, watching my husband and her walk close enough to brush arms and share quieted laughs.

I didn’t mind. In that moment, she could have him. I was only interested in her.


	2. First Taste

We faced each other—her in a matching simple black bra and panty, me in my favorite blue and white striped set. Where was husband? Oh, who cares. _This_ was happening.

A foot separated us. We each stood in a deceptively relaxed stance with our arms at our sides, legs slightly parted, barefoot and more bare than if we were already naked. My eyes came to the exact level of that tattoo I had wondered about.

It was glorious. A bright blue butterfly in profile, wings arched back as if ready for flight. The size was disproportionately small in comparison to the heavy breast it perched above. With her stuttering breaths, nerves making them sipped inhales and exhales, the butterfly shook as if a wind jostled it to take off.

Her plain black bra contrasted nicely to her milky chocolate skin tone but did nothing to hike her girls up. Whereas, the demi-cups of my own attempted to launch my hefty tits up to my chin. Could she tell my nipples were hardening in anticipation?

She shifted on her feet. The tops of her breasts wobbled. The butterfly fluttered. I could resist no longer. 

With the tip of my index finger, I split the distance between us, landing a touch on the blue wing. “This moves so beautifully.” I whispered like we were in church.

Daring another finger, I traced the edge of the wing while staring up into her ebony eyes. “You are so beautiful.” She felt like silk.

Her smile was radiant for a moment, all gleaming white teeth framed with light pink and darkly edged lips. Then it faltered, warbled into self-conscious plasticity. Her shoulders did a roll forward; the butterfly retreated.

Instincts, ones I would’ve sworn weren’t mine, took over. I stepped toward her, flattening my palm over the butterfly as if to shield it. Her shoulders pulled back, presenting more of herself to me. I smiled my encouragement and she returned it, not as radiant but a step in the right direction.

Did I have doubts? Did I question what I was doing and why? Of course...

None of this had been my want before this moment. I was here because the man I was married to was an abusive ass. Bruises in various hues of purple and yellow littered my body, but the story behind each was easily dismissed as clumsiness or accident-prone. He’d been on “best behavior” ever since I’d agreed to his insistence for a third to share our bed.

So here I was…

And my doubts receded. They had no place here, with her. She deserved a doubtless, honest moment. I wanted to give her, myself, that. I wouldn't put my troubles on her shoulders. Her butterfly needed to fly. And so did I.

With the decision made, those instincts I wasn’t fully trusting yet took over. I allowed my palm to move down, to press flat over her bra-covered breast. Her nipple responded, perking up as if in invitation, a doorbell begging to be rung. I obliged.

Her breath quickened. With a tug at the nub of her nipple, the smooth surface of her bra slipped between my fingers. She gasped; I smiled. She giggled, and I couldn’t take the sweetness of it.

Leaning in, going up on my tip-toes, I pressed our lips together. That was all that touched. Our eyes stayed open, studying each other. What was she saying with hers? I didn’t know; I didn’t really know her. That was about to change.

Pulling back the merest amount, our mouths drifted apart. I drew my tongue out to swipe across my lips, catching the slightest taste of hers as well. The fruity flavor of her earlier drink mixed nicely with her natural sweetness. Another delicate gasp escaped her, a rush of air entering my parted lips. It was invitation enough.

Stepping into the space between us, I placed my hands on her shoulders and my lips back where they belonged—on hers, now open and waiting. 

There was a ridiculous song in my head— _I kissed a girl_ —but this wasn’t the first time. That dubious honor went to a girl in a bar bathroom a few weeks earlier. I’d been tipsy enough to be encouraged, rather than outraged, by husband’s badgering to flirt with other women. Away from his prying eyes, I’d laughed while complimenting the girl on her lip gloss, boldly asking if I could try it. She’d laughed too as I’d brought our lips together for a brief connection. With a final glance in the mirror, I’d swiped the transferred gloss across my secret smile before returning to my none-the-wiser husband.

But now, with this beautiful butterfly girl, with the title of that song going on a loop in my head, I _really_ kissed a girl.

My tongue was the first out of the gate, but hers quickly matched my pace. Sensation took over. Slowly, our eyes closed. Our heads angled as if we’d done this many times before, yet I knew she was as inexperienced as I. Still, we melted together, our lips sealing over the slow exploration of our tongues.

Hers was as smooth as I’d imagined. As sweet and silky. The broadness of it brought a twinge of desire to my pussy, anticipation of how much territory of lips and clit could be covered in a single swipe of its softest touch. I think I may have shivered—I remember her bringing her hands up to my shoulders as if to steady me.

A smile spread my lips, dragging my tongue out a little to trace over the front of her teeth. I wanted to memorize her mouth. Every part of her. There would only be this one first and I wanted to savor it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Please leave comments -- critical or complimentary, feedback is always appreciated.


End file.
